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  Copyright © 2016 by Marieke Nijkamp

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design © Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Mark Watson (kalimistuk) / Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410

  (630) 961–3900

  Fax: (630) 961–2168

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Nijkamp, Marieke.

  This is where it ends / Marieke Nijkamp.

  pages cm

  Summary: Minutes after the principal of Opportunity High School in Alabama finishes her speech welcoming the student body to a new semester, they discover that the auditorium doors will not open and someone starts shooting as four teens, each with a personal reason to fear the shooter, tell the tale from separate perspectives.

  (alk. paper)

  [1. School shootings--Fiction. 2. High schools--Fiction. 3. Schools--Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.1.N55Thi 2016

  [Fic]--dc23

  2015016026

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my mom, with love.

  Chapter One

  10:01–10:02 A.M.

  CLAIRE

  The starter gun shatters the silence, releasing the runners from their blocks.

  Track season starts in a couple weeks, but no one has told Coach Lindt about winter. He’s convinced that the only way to get us into shape is to practice—even when my breath freezes right in front of me.

  This is Opportunity, Alabama. Sane people don’t leave their homes when it’s white and frosty outside. We stock up on canned food, drink hot chocolate until we succumb to sugar comas, and pray to be saved from the cold.

  Still, Coach Lindt’s start-of-season training beats Principal Trenton’s long and arduous start-of-semester speech—virtue, hard work, and the proper behavior of young ladies and gentlemen. After almost four years at Opportunity High, I can recite her words from memory, which is exactly what I did for Matt at breakfast this morning—responsibility, opportunity (“no pun intended”), and her favorite, our school motto: We Shape the Future.

  It sounds glorious, but with months left until graduation, I have no clue what the future looks like. If Opportunity shaped me, I didn’t notice. Running, I know. This track, I know. One step after another after another. It doesn’t matter what comes next as long as I keep moving forward.

  My foot slips, and I stumble.

  From his position on the field, Coach curses. “Claire, attention! One misstep’s the difference between success and failure.”

  Straightening, I refocus.

  A familiar laugh colors the still morning. “Did you freeze up over holiday break, Sarge? A snail could catch up with you floundering like that.” On the straightaway of the track, Chris falls into step with me.

  I suck in a breath before I answer him. “Oh, shut up.”

  My best friend only laughs louder. The even rhythm of his footsteps and his breathing challenge me to find my pace. His presence steadies me like it always does. At six-foot-five and with sun-touched hair and blue eyes, Chris is not just our best runner but also Opportunity’s poster-boy athlete. On uniform days, the freshman girls fawn over him.

  With Chris by my side, my stride shortens. The other two runners on our varsity team are far behind us, on the other side of the field. Chris and I move in perfect synchrony, and the very air parts before us.

  Nothing can touch us. Not snow. Not even time.

  • • •

  TOMÁS

  Time’s up. The small clock on the bookshelf strikes ten with an annoying little tune, and I thumb through the tabs in front of me at supersonic speed. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.

  It only took superglue—strategically squirted on the desk drawers of my favorite Spanish teacher, Mr. Look-At-Me-Strutting-My-Stuff-Like-A-Walking-Midlife-Crisis—for Far and me to find our way to the administrative office. But it took both our student IDs before we managed to jiggle the lock on Principal Trenton’s door. And it’ll all be for nothing if I can’t find the file I’m looking for. I scan the folders in the filing cabinet. When an elbow pokes my side, I startle. “Dammit, Far. What the hell?”

  Fareed rolls his eyes and gestures for me to keep quiet. Someone’s in the hallway, he mouths. He tiptoes back to the door.

  Crap.

  How do I explain this? “No, ma’am, I’m not doing anything, just breaking into school records”?

  Whatever. I’m sure I have a legal right to see my own permanent record, so I can always use that as my excuse. The fact that these folders just happened to be “Last Names, A–C” instead of “Last Names, M–N” is nothing more than a coincidence. No one knows whose file I’m looking for, except Far. And even he doesn’t know the whole reason.

  If anything, I can always “find” Al-Sahar, Fareed as a cover. The school administration can’t even file his name right.

  Still.

  A door opens and closes. A lock clicks.

  Footsteps squeak on the linoleum outside the administrative office.

  Footsteps that pause before the principal’s door—our door.

  I quietly push the file drawer shut. Better not to stir up trouble—more trouble—if I get caught red-handed.

  Far and I both hold our breath.

  After what feels like forever, the footsteps move on. Whomever it was, they’re not out to get us. Not today.
/>   • • •

  AUTUMN

  “…it’s all a matter of the decisions you make, today and every day. Your behavior reflects not only on yourself but also on your parents, your family, and your school.

  “Here at Opportunity, we pride ourselves on shaping the doctors, lawyers, and politicians of tomorrow. And it’s the choices you make now that will determine your future. You have to ask yourself how you can become the best you can be. Ask not what your school can do for you but what you can do for you.”

  Trenton holds the microphone loosely while she scans the crowd, as if memorizing every single face. So many students come and go, leaving nothing but the faintest impression, names scratched into desks and graffitied onto bathroom stalls, yet she knows us all.

  All our hopes. All our heartbreaks. All our sleepless nights.

  Her eyes linger on me, and my neck burns. I reach for the chair to my right, but it remains as it was when the assembly started. Empty.

  To my left, Sylv groans. “After all these years, you’d think she’d come up with something more original.”

  “Don’t you want to be the best you can be?” The words come out harsher than I intend.

  She grumbles.

  In truth, Sylv will have plenty of colleges to choose from. She’s a shoo-in for all her dream schools. And I should be happy for her. I am happy for her.

  But for me, college is the only way out of this misery, and Dad sure as hell isn’t going to pay my ride. Not to study dance. “Look what happened to your mother,” he’d say, as if I haven’t counted the days, hours, minutes since Mom’s accident. “Dance took everything from her. No daughter of mine is going into that business. Not if I can stop it.”

  So he tries to stop me—every day. And with Mom gone, there’s no one to stop him. Not from drinking. Not from hitting me. There’s no one to keep our family from falling apart.

  I grip my crumpled coffee cup, grab the threadbare denim messenger bag from under my seat, and block out Ty’s voice in the back of my mind. My brother would tell me that Principal Trenton’s words are truer than I think, that the world is at my fingertips and it’s up to me to make my future the best it can be.

  I tried that and I lost. Now I’d rather escape.

  • • •

  SYLV

  I sink deep into my seat and glance at the empty place next to Autumn. He’s not coming after all. He’d have been here by now. He won’t come. I’m safe here.

  He won’t come.

  The knot in my stomach unfurls and recoils with every twist and turn of my mind. I could ask Autumn about Tyler, but she’s lost in memories. Today is two years since the accident. She refuses to share her grief with me—or anyone. Even when she smiles, she isn’t the girl she used to be.

  And I miss her.

  Some days, when she thinks no one is watching, she still moves across the floor as if she’s flying. La golondrina, Mamá used to call her. The swallow. All grace and beauty. When Autumn dances, all her worry falls away and she shines.

  I wish she could dance forever.

  Madre de Dios, how I wish I could watch her dance forever.

  Instead, it is another Monday. Life goes on. The assembly is over, and Autumn holds herself ramrod straight. I’m the only one who knows she’ll fly out of this cage and leave us all behind as soon as she can.

  Meanwhile, next period is the last review for my AP U.S. History midterm, and I haven’t even touched my books. Mamá had another one of her bad spells over break. We were supposed to go into town together last Saturday, but when Abuelo brought the car around, she barely recognized him. She didn’t want to leave the house. She didn’t understand where we were going. I sat with her for hours, talked to her—listen, Mamá—told her the stories that wove our family around her. She was disoriented for days afterward, and I can’t shake the feeling that with every day that passes, she slips away like starlight at dawn.

  At least history suits me. You already know if those stories will end happily.

  CJ Johnson

  @CadetCJJ

  Sleeeeeeeeepy #OHS

  10:01 AM

  Jay Eyck

  @JEyck32

  @CadetCJJ #snodaylikeasnowday

  10:01 AM

  CJ Johnson

  @CadetCJJ

  @JEyck32 Bailing on assembly to sleep?

  >_> #morelikehungoverday

  10:01 AM

  CJ Johnson

  @CadetCJJ

  @Claire_Morgan Can I order one of the freshmen to bring me coffee?

  10:02 AM

  Chapter Two

  10:02–10:04 A.M.

  TOMÁS

  I reach for the bowl on top of the desk and pop a few mints into my mouth. Far peeks around the principal’s door. When he gives the all clear, I open the filing cabinet again. I haven’t lost much work. Just time.

  Principal Trenton may still live in the pre-digital era, but she’s like a cyborg. She always speaks until ten sharp, leaving five minutes for announcements before the bell. By the end of the assembly, everyone has to run to make it to class on time for third period. Well, in theory. The teachers and other personnel are in the auditorium too, and they don’t run.

  So everyone pushes to leave, then strolls, dawdles, sneaks out for a smoke and some air (the two aren’t mutually exclusive, thank you very much). After all, even nicotine and tar smell better than what my sis once described as our “odor-torium,” a unique blend of testosterone, sweat, and burned coffee.

  But we’re cutting it far too close. “I hate paperwork.”

  “Maybe you should stay on the farm then,” Fareed drawls. “Honest work and hard labor don’t require brains.”

  “You’re hilarious.” My fingers skim his file, and I pull it out of the drawer. “D’you want to see the letter of recommendation Mr. O’Brian wrote for your college applications?”

  He holds out his hands, and I toss him the file. A few sheets flutter from the folder before Far catches it.

  “Barbarian.”

  I snort. “Sorry. Not sorry.”

  “I look so young and innocent in this picture,” Fareed muses, staring at his cover sheet. For most of our class, the picture used by the administration is three years old, taken when we enrolled as freshmen. In his case, however—

  “That was taken last year!”

  “How you’ve corrupted me. Without your brilliant ideas, I’d have been a straight-A student, never in trouble with the law, girls following me everywhere.”

  “Sure.” I pull another folder out of the filing cabinet. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Fareed makes another comment, but I’m not paying attention. A familiar picture stares at me from the cover sheet.

  Bingo.

  Browne, Tyler. Gelled blond hair, pale eyes, and an oh-so-familiar blank look. The one time his eyes weren’t glossed over with contempt was when I slammed his head into a locker. My fingers itch to do it again.

  Does the administration note criminal charges in student records? Probably not when the files are this easy to access. Definitely not when said student dropped out at the end of last year. Besides, I don’t even know if he has a criminal record. According to his grades, he was a perfectly respectable C student. Three years at Opportunity and Tyler coasted through all his classes.

  He only—spectacularly—failed Humanity 101.

  The latest note in his file is unmistakable though: Reenrolling. Effective immediately.

  Sylvia mentioned it this weekend. It was the first time she’s confided in me in months. She looked ready to puke her guts out, she was so scared, but she refused to tell me why. So here I am, breaking into school records. To make sure she’s safe. Twin-brother privileges.

  Not that I’ll ever admit to that or even hint that I care. Twin-brother reputation.

/>   I lean against the principal’s desk and read.

  Date of birth, address—boring. Emergency contact information for father, mother deceased. Last school, date of admission—nothing I don’t already know. Present class: not applicable. Not yet.

  SAT score: 2140.

  Huh. A closet genius.

  Maybe that explains why, despite his bravado, Tyler never made good on any of his threats. He may be a maggot, but he’s the smartest kind: a harmless one.

  • • •

  AUTUMN

  My back aches. I roll my shoulders to loosen the knotted muscles. Sylv lingers instead of rejoining the rest of her class. She cracks her knuckles with sharp snaps. “Are you okay?”

  “I…” I hesitate.

  I woke up drenched in sweat last night, expecting a knock at the door like two years ago. But this morning was breakfast as usual. Ty was nowhere to be found, and after this weekend, I didn’t mind. Figures. Dad didn’t bother to get up. He started—or never stopped—drinking last night. These days, he doesn’t even try to hide it. When Mom was still alive, he only drank when she was away and only during the darkest times. He still knew how to smile then, and he could make both Ty and me laugh.

  Now he’s angry at the entire world, at anything that reminds him of Mom.

  At me.

  I don’t know how to put all that into words. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in a long time. It isn’t just Mom’s death. Dad—sometimes I’m afraid.

  And Ty… I’m afraid I’ll lose Ty too.

  But Sylv and Ty hate each other. How can I begin to make her understand?

  She places her hand on my arm, then remembers where we are and nervously tucks a long, black curl behind her ears. Her bright-blue top matches her eyeliner, which makes her eyes sparkle. At Opportunity, where so many of us prefer to stay hidden, she’s the brightest spotlight on the darkest stage. She looks at me expectantly. “It’s understandable, you know. Anniversaries can be difficult. You can be sad. No one will judge you, least of all me.”

  I nod, but the words still won’t form. The voices ebb and flow around us as students climb the raked aisles between the four blocks of seating. Sylv’s eyes flick to the other side of the auditorium, where some of the football players are getting loud.